


Be Still

by rubygirl29



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Movie(s), Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 21:09:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: When Clint is put in a medically induced coma, Phil is there to guide him awake, though the other Avengers believe they helped. I think they did, but Clint will always say it was Phil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be Still

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: This is my first _Avengers_ fic. I've done some research into medically induced coma. It has been used in cases of severe septic shock. I didn't have to do research into migraines. _Sigh ..._ The title is from a gorgeous lullaby by Fray, on their new album _Scars and Stories_ Lyrics and YouTube URL are at the end of the story. I covered all the prompts, some more obliquely than others. This story is basically Gen, but could be considered mild pre-slash for those who want to see it that way. Heck, it's about relationships and healing. 
> 
> *For some inexplicable reason, this fic was deleted from my site. I have no clue. So, I'm reposting it.

**Be Still**

The hospital corridor was a particularly noisome shade of mint green; the linoleum was too white, too bright. An orderly dropped a metal tray and Phil Coulson flinched, covering his ears with his hands. He didn't understand how he could be nearly deaf with tinnitus and still be ultra-sensitive to sound. _Migraines_. He squinted against the glare of the lights, rubbed his eyes and told himself that the flashes at the edges of his vision didn't mean what he knew they meant. He couldn't afford to be flat on his back in a dark room, not with Clint Barton fighting for his life just beyond the closed doors of the ICU.

He shielded his eyes. The throb was building at the base of his skull and his migraine meds were back at SHIELD headquarters. He would just have to dig in and endure. It was just a _headache_. He hadn't been sliced open with a knife like Barton had been. The thought of all that blood made him want to vomit. The nausea that came with the migraine wasn't helping. If he just had a cold compress on his head and his pills he'd be fine. 

He heard the click of heels coming towards him. He looked up. Natasha, spectacular even in jeans and a plain dark sweater, sat next to him. She took his hand and pressed a chemical cold pack into his hands. He buried his face in it gratefully. 

When he looked up Natasha was watching him. "You look terrible," she said. She dug in the pocket of her leather jacket. She sounded like she was speaking underwater and he had to concentrate on what she was saying. "Here, take these."

"I'm avoiding mirrors for the duration." He squinted at the bottle. His medication. "How ...?"

"Stark thought you would need them. Here," she held out a bottle of water. "Take them and drink all of the water."

He took half a dose, ignoring Natasha's frown. He couldn't afford to be out of it. As long as the medication took the edge off the headache, he'd be all right. He'd be all right as long as Clint was all right. 

"Any news?" Natasha asked. "The others are waiting, you know."

"No."

"I'll stay if you like." Her face was soft, her eyes a bit moist. She held Phil's hand. 

"Please."

She sat next to him, her warm hand wrapped around his cold one as they sat in the too bright corridor, as he felt the pills slowly blunt the headache, as they waited.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Getting injured in the course of an op was something all agents faced, but sometimes SHIELD lost that perspective. Sure, Tony was human until he encased himself in that inhuman carapace that was Iron Man. Thor was a god ... and so huge that his physical presence alone was intimidating. Steve? He was Captain America -- blindingly handsome and pure and strong as a diamond. But Barton? He was just a human being with mad sniper skills. Those skills weren't proof against a damned genetically-enhanced madman with a knife. A filthy, dull-edged knife that didn't just cut him, it had ripped through muscle and into his gut, spilling bacteria into his abdominal cavity. He had been lying in a sticky pool of his own blood when they found him.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

The cuffs and knees of Phil's suit were stained and brown with Barton's blood. He had washed the blood off his hands, but he swore he could smell the rich copper taint clinging to him. It wasn't helping his nausea. He stood up too quickly and the room spun around. 

"Got you." It was Steve. He held Phil up, guided him to the washroom, held him up while he lost his lunch and what felt like his soul. 

Phil was humiliated, his throat hurt. His head was throbbing. "Thanks, " he said. He seemed to be saying that a lot tonight. Some boss he was. "I'm ... I'll be fine."

The door opened and Natasha strode in. She handed Phil a set of folded scrubs and a plastic bag. "At least they don't smell like Barton's blood," she said and stalked out with a warning glance at Rogers. 

"I'll be outside," Steve said and left. Phil was grateful. It was bad enough that Rogers had to hold him up as he puked, to be stripped down to his skivvies in front of the paragon of physical perfection would have just been ... not good for his image -- or self-esteem. He put on the scrubs, which were at least blue, and highlighted his eyes instead of his slightly green-tinged complexion.

He folded his suit and put it into the bag; then thinking of the blood and getting it cleaned, threw it into the rubbish. Nick Fury could fork out another twelve hundred dollars for a new one. 

The hallway was deserted. It looked like the team had ... a mug of coffee with a note was on the chair. _Went for food. Coffee for you. Back later._. He took a drink of the coffee. Natasha had tempered it with milk and sugar, and it tasted like heaven. The caffeine wouldn't hurt his migraine. 

He sat and sipped the coffee. It was scalding, just the way he liked it. Natasha was nothing if not observant. The brew was nearly cool when the doors to the ICU opened and a tired-looking doctor emerged. "Agent Coulson?"

"Yes." Phil stood. "How is he?"

"The good news is that he is out of surgery and he's stable."

"The bad news?"

"Due to the blood loss and the high risk of sepsis, we've put him in a medical coma."

"For how long?"

"I don't know. Thirty-six to forty-eight hours is my best guess."

Phil nodded. "I've read some disquieting things about medical comas. Psychologically-speaking." The doctor looked like he was wondering how he knew that. "I was put in one, once," Phil explained. "I remember a lot of very unpleasant hallucinations."

The doctor crossed his arms, leaned against the wall and sighed. "We can't control the mind, just the body. It might help having a familiar voice speaking to him as much as possible until we bring him out of the coma."

"He'll have that. Can I see him?"

"Give the nurses some time to make sure he's settled and stable. Thirty minutes."

"I'll tell the others."

"Others?"

"We're a team," Phil said quietly. "We'll be there until he wakes up."

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Phil took first watch even though he was exhausted and his headache was threatening to return with a vengeance. He had his reasons for being first. It was awkward being in that small glassed-in room with its dim lighting and the steady beep of monitoring equipment. It was like being in a fishbowl, and he was acutely aware of his visibility until he realized that Clint was not the only patient, and the staff was frequently occupied with other, more demanding situations than a man in a medical coma, breathing on his own, and being watched over by his friends. 

Phil pulled a chair up to the bedside and sat, trying to figure out what to say. Clint was nearly as white as the sheets he lay on, there were dark hollows under his eyes and the sedation had left his expressive face slackened and still. It wasn't natural -- nothing about this was. Phil took Clint's hand in his and started talking. "I don't know if you can hear me, but it's been one hell of a day ..."

After two hours, just when he thought his voice would give out and he'd fall asleep in the chair, Thor placed a large warm hand on his shoulder. "I will take over your watch. I know many tales of brave warriors that I believe Mr. Barton will understand."

Phil nearly said that wasn't how it worked, but Thor looked so determined, so serious, that all he could do was nod and whisper, "Thank you."

For the next thirty-six hours, as Clint's body battled infection and fever, they stayed and talked to him as if he could hear them. Stark read the Wall Street Journal. Dr. Banner seemed to find Physics Weekly endlessly fascinating. Natasha recited poetry, and Thor continued his sagas that sounded a lot like The Lord of the Rings. Steve read Mark Twain. Phil just talked about everyday life, revealing more to Clint than he had to any human being, and called himself a coward for not talking to him like that when he wasn't unconscious.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
The next day the doctors started bringing Clint out of the coma. Stillness was replaced with small movements, with the twitching of fingertips, the turn and twist of his head as he dealt with some nightmare that Phil had no knowledge of, though he knew they all had those memories locked in a box. He knew _he_ did, he just didn't talk about them. 

"I was like you," he said softly to Clint. "It wasn't good. I seemed to be fighting every enemy I ever had to the death. I kept hoping somebody would pull me out of the pit." He hadn't had anybody with him -- no family, no fellow agents. Just the medical staff. He didn't want Clint to carry the same weight of memories when he woke up. "That's why we're here. Why I'm here. I hope you can hear me, Clint, because I don't want you to think you are alone in the darkness."

He took Clint's hand in his, his thumb tracing the bones of fingers, wrists, knuckles. Barton's fingers and palms were calloused from the bow, scarred from fights and accidents. They were the hands of a fighter, a warrior, but also long-fingered and sensitive. 

Clint's fingers tightened around his and he moved restlessly. Phil didn't relinquish his hold; he wrapped both his hands around Clint's and whispered, "Be still. Be still." And Barton quieted beneath the weight of his hand, the weight of his voice. Phil smoothed the frown between his brows with the pad of his thumb, soothed his temples and the knot at the corner of his jaw. Clint sighed and stilled, his sleep still not quite natural, but at least no longer like death. Phil wove his fingers through Barton's lax ones, and imagined that he felt some response.

He was still sitting like that when Natasha returned. "We captured him," she said. "The man who did this."

Phil turned to her. "Thank you."

"How is he?"

"Improving slowly. The doctors think he will wake up sometime tomorrow as the drugs wear off." He was annoyed when his voice cracked. 

"You look exhausted. I'll sit with him while you sleep. If he starts waking up, I will get you, I promise."

"I'll be ... in the lounge at the end of the hall."

"I know."

The couches provided were real spine-benders, but Phil could have slept on a pile of rocks, he was that tired. He rolled his suit jacket into pillow and did a faceplant into the wool, careless of what it would look like when he woke up. _An hour, he thought, that's all I need_. 

He slept for three, and woke up to Natasha shaking him gently. "Agent Coulson, the doctor says Clint is waking up."

"I feel like I've been in a coma," he mumbled and pushed himself upright. He made a quick trip to the washroom, despairing of the cowlick his nap had raised. He splashed cold water on his face. His jacket was hopeless. He slung it over his shoulder and jogged down the corridor.

Natasha stepped aside to let Phil stand closer to the bedside. "It shouldn't be long," she said. "I'll tell the others."

The IV that had been dripping barbiturates had been removed, and Barton's breathing was less measured and more like a person coming awake after a deep sleep. His eyes were moving beneath his closed lids. 

"Talk to him," the doctor standing at the bedside said. "Say his name."

"Agent Barton, it's time to wake up." Clint turned his head towards the sound of Phil's voice. "Clint? Time to wake up."

A sliver of pale blue showed beneath fluttering eyelids, and Phil tightened his grip on Clint's hand. "Wake up. There's a job to do." 

Barton's lips moved, and Phil bent closer to hear the faint whisper. "Fuck off." 

Phil just grinned and pretended those weren't tears in his eyes. He gave Clint's hand another brief squeeze and let the doctors move in to do their thing. He hoped they had put away their sharp implements. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

The next day, Phil was stunned to see Clint sitting up in a chair leafing through a copy of _Archery_ magazine. "Isn't that a little light reading for you?" he asked.

"I need light." He looked up. "Phil."

"Your disposition was better when you were in the coma," Phil came closer and held out his hand, felt Clint's close around his tightly. "How are you?"

"Aside from feeling like my guts are going to fall out when I stand up, I'm okay. Thank you."

"I didn't do anything." He didn't like being found out, not that he had much to hide from Barton. 

"Yeah, well, I don't remember a lot, but I heard people talking to me. I heard _you_."

"Natasha, Thor, Steve, Bruce, even Tony ... we were all here."

"But you're the one I remember. Your voice. This sounds a little weird, but it was like this golden thread that I could hold on to when I wanted to slip away ... there were dark waters, and pain. Maybe it was all a drug-induced hallucination, but I held on to that thread. It was always there when I needed it. So, thank you." He winced. "If you tell anybody that, I'll shoot an arrow through your favorite suit."

"You already bled all over it."

"Sorry."

"I charged a new one to Fury."

"Nice." Again that wince. 

"Maybe we should get you back to bed." He slid a supporting arm around Clint's waist. He wasn't a big man, but he could handle Barton. He eased Clint down on the bed. "Lie down."

"Are you going to tuck me in?" Barton's eyes were wide and blue, but hazy. 

"Sure. Just this once, though. And only because you're not one hundred percent."

"You're a cruel man."

"So I've been told." He pulled up the blanket. "Be still." He smoothed the covers, touched Barton's shoulder. "Be still. I'll stay until you sleep."

**The End**

****_Be still and know that I'm with you_  
Be still and know that I am here  
Be still and know that I'm with you  
Be still, be still, and know 

****_When darkness comes upon you_  
And colors you with fear and shame  
Be still and know that I'm with you  
And I will say your name 

****_If terror falls upon your bed_  
And sleep no longer comes  
Remember all the words I said  
Be still, be still, and know 

**And when you go through the valley  
** And the shadow comes down from the hill  
If morning never comes to be  
Be still, be still, be still 

**If you forget the way to go  
** And lose where you came from  
If no one is standing beside you  
Be still and know I am 

**Be still and know that I'm with you  
Be still and know I am**


End file.
